Fleur De Lies Read online

  “There they are … with some bald guy I’ve never seen before. Ew! They’ve saved two seats. C’mon.” Jackie seized my hand and sprinted toward a round table that occupied the far corner, arriving two steps behind an elderly couple who’d just claimed the chairs by pulling them out. “Excuse me,” Jackie said in a voice breathy with apology, “but I believe those seats are taken.”

  “I know they are.” The gentleman grinned. “By me and my wife.” He tapped his name tag. “I’m Leo. This is Izetta.”

  “What I meant was, they’re being saved for me and my friend.”

  “No they’re not.” Bobbi Benedict regarded Jackie from beneath the brim of her pale blue Western hat. “It’s first come, first serve. No seat saving allowed.” She glanced at her two blonde companions for confirmation. “Idn’t that right?”

  Alligator Boots, whose name tag identified her as Dawna Chestnut from Nacogdoches, Texas, inched her rosy lips into a smug smile. “Sure is,” she drawled as she hiked her strapless bustier toward her chin.

  Snakeskin Jeans dusted her cheek with the tail end of her long platinum hair, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Ditto what Dawna said.” I glanced at her name tag. Krystal Cake. Abilene, Texas.

  I tugged on Jackie’s dress. “There’s an empty seat over there. I’m going to—”

  “Mom? Dad?” A middle-aged woman in a clingy cocktail dress intercepted Leo and Izetta before they could sit. “We’re saving seats for you on the other side of the room. You want to join us? I have your pill caddies.” She flashed a smile at the Mona Michelle elite. “Sorry.” Grasping her parents by their elbows, she gently navigated them away from the table.

  Jackie shot a puzzled look across the table at Bobbi. “I thought you said there was no seat saving.”

  “There isn’t. And if that gal had read through the booklet they left in her cabin, she’d know it, too.”

  “I’ve failed to read any policy that prohibits guests from saving seats,” rasped Victor as he motioned for Jackie and me to sit down. He was without his oxygen pack tonight, so his breathing sounded a little more forced.

  “You have no credibility,” scoffed Virginia. “You forgot to pack your reading glasses. You can’t read anything.” She turned in her chair to scan the room. “Where’s the sommelier?”

  “The what?” asked Woody, who had somehow ended up at our table rather than at his son Cal’s.

  “The sum-el-yay,” she repeated in three drawn-out syllables. “The wine steward.”

  “Well, would you listen to those French words fallin’ out of your mouth?” gushed Dawna. “You sound just like a native. Victor never mentioned you could speak two whole languages. I am so impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” Virginia fixed her with an imperious stare. “Sommelier isn’t a French word; it’s English. Perhaps instead of a new-and-improved retractable lip liner, you should think about buying yourself a thesaurus.”

  Confusion clouded Dawna’s eyes, chased away by a sudden peal of laughter. “You are such a tease,” she scolded. “Go buy myself a thesaurus. You know very well those creatures have been extinct for at least two thousand years.”

  Gee, Victor’s wife might not be the easiest person to warm up to, but I was really beginning to like her.

  Virginia angled a meaningful look at her husband. “However do you manage to keep the company afloat? Creative bookkeeping?”

  “Leave her alone, my pet. The day Mona Michelle expands into the dictionary business will be the day I listen to your complaint.”

  Woody cast admiring looks around the table as he shook out his napkin. “I’ve lived a lot of years, ladies. More than I’ll ever admit to. But I have to confess, I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve had the pleasure of being surrounded by so many beautiful women all at the same time. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Aw, aren’t you just the sweetest man?” bubbled Krystal, rewarding him with a thousand-watt smile enhanced by flirtatious eye movements.

  “And while I’m on the subject of dying, have any of you lovely ladies ever stopped to realize that your next meal might be your last?”

  I dropped my head to my chest. Not again.

  Dawna gasped. “The ship’s run out of food?”

  “No, no. I’m sure the ship’s not going to run out of anything. But the question you should be asking yourselves is … have you run out of time on our lovely planet? You need to be prepared for the end, ladies, and it’s never too soon to start, which is why it’s so important for you to think about advanced funeral planning.”

  Bobbi gaped at Woody, her mouth sagging open. “You’re jokin’, aren’t you, sugah?”

  “Advanced planning is no joke,” cautioned Woody. “In fact, with the cost of living on the rise, it makes good financial sense to pre-pay your funeral in today’s dollars rather than the inflated currency of tomorrow. We have payment plans to fit every budget, including a rather generous layaway plan where a client can—”

  “Mr. Jolly,” Victor interrupted, “I applaud your efforts to advertise your product. Being a businessman myself, I understand it behooves us to look at every situation as a marketing opportunity, but if you persist in hijacking the conversation to push your business model, I’ll have you removed from this table. Do I make myself clear?”

  Woody leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Unh-oh. I hoped this didn’t escalate into a Mexican standoff. But at least there was no way it would turn into a pissing contest. Guys this old could barely provide urine samples.

  Krystal gave Woody a playful swat on his arm. “Us girls don’t wanna hear about no layaway plan at no funeral parlor, darlin’. Y’all need to target another age group.” She scanned the other tables for possibilities. “Like … anyone else in the room.”

  “You must have missed a recent nightly news segment,” I piped up, directing my comment at Krystal. “They posted the results of a decades’ long medical study that showed that today’s eighty- and ninety-year-olds are, by comparison, much healthier than the majority of today’s thirty-year-olds. So there’s a good possibility that most of the people in this room will end up living a lot longer than you will.”

  “I don’t think so.” She gave me a dismissive look. “Sounds like a bunch of liberal fiction to me.”

  Dawna furrowed her brow. “Is fiction the one that’s real or make believe? I can never remember.”

  “Why don’t you look it up in your thesaurus?” droned Virginia.

  “Ewww-weee!” Krystal grabbed the edge of the table. “Can y’all feel that?” She suddenly looked a little woozy. “We’re pickin’ up speed. You know what that means?”

  “We’re going faster?” asked Jackie.

  “It means I better pop a pill before I embarrass myself.”

  Too late for that.

  “Krystal can get motion sick just standin’ in one place,” Bobbi explained, “so she’s gotta take some honkin’ big pills to help her walk without hurlin’. Don’t ya, sugah?”

  Krystal mined her pocketbook for a plastic pill container, flipped open the top, and popped a softgel the size of a dum dum bullet into her mouth, washing it down with a gulp of water.

  “How come my motion sickness pills don’t look like yours?” asked Woody. He removed a foil blister pack from his shirt pocket and slapped it on the table. “Mine look more like baby aspirin. Am I getting ripped off ? I keep telling the druggist I need something stronger, but he keeps selling me the same damn pills. Airplane turbulence really does me in, even after I’ve chewed a couple of the things. And the older I get, the worse it gets. If the river gets choppy, I’ll probably be holed up in my cabin ’til Paris.”

  “I buy all my drugs at the vitamin shop, hon, so I never have to deal with druggists giving me the wrong pills. I scan the shelves, rea
d the labels, decide what I need, and buy it in economy-size, tamper-proof bottles. You wanna know the best thing for my kind of motion sickness? Ginger. In thousand-gram caplets.”

  “You don’t consult your physician?” marveled Woody. “You just go out and buy it over the counter?”

  “I never buy it over the counter, hon. I always use the self-checkout lane because it’s usually a lot faster.”

  Virginia let out a pained groan accompanied by an impatient look around the room. “Where is the wine steward?” She stuck her bejeweled hand in the air and snapped her fingers. “You there!”

  A man in black tie, tux, and red cummerbund hurried over to our table. “Mesdames, messieurs, I welcome you aboard the Renoir. I am Patrice, and it is my pleasure to serve you this evening. You will allow me to show you our wine list?”

  “It’s about time,” huffed Virginia. “Yes, you can show me your wine list. But trust me, if this is an example of the poor service we can expect to receive for the rest of the trip, I guarantee you’ll soon be looking for new employment.”

  “Oui, madame. Pardonne.” He placed a long, narrow placard in her hands. “You would like to order for the table?”

  She slid her rhinestone glasses onto her face. “I’m going to order for myself. The rest of them can take care of themselves. And I’m thinking that a fine Chateau Mouton Rothchild would do quite nicely this evening.”

  While Virginia dithered over vintage year and blend, Victor folded his hands on the table and smiled. “So, my lovelies, tell me about your home visit. Did you dazzle your host family?”

  Dawna bounced gleefully in her chair, causing her bustier to plunge toward wardrobe malfunction territory. “We welcomed three new Mona Michelle converts into the fold! Bobbi and Krystal and me had sample products with us, so we—”

  “—convinced our hostess that we could erase years from her face with our concealer gel and foundation,” chirped Krystal.

  “So we did freaking amazing makeovers for her and her two daughters,” Bobbi enthused. “By the time we finished, they—”

  “—were beggin’ us to sell them our entire line of daywear products,” gushed Dawna. “We left a few samples with them, Victor, but if you really want to make a killing, you gotta—”

  “—create an international arm of Mona Michelle!” cried Bobbi.

  Jackie came to attention beside me, shooting an adoring look at the blondes before preening like a starlet expecting to be named best actress in a foreign film.

  Victor nodded his pleasure. “Personal initiative and enthusiasm for the product, ladies. This is why we lead the industry in sales. Your performance continues to exceed my expectations.”

  “Hey, Patricia.” Woody waved his menu at the steward. “One of our entrees is listed here as ‘Poison Grille.’ I’ve got two questions for you. Number one: What kind of poison is it? And number two: How do I know it won’t kill me?”

  Patrice threw a nervous look in Woody’s direction. “Poison, monsieur? No, no. That cannot be. Excusé moi, madame. Just for a moment.”

  “I haven’t finished with you yet,” snapped Virginia as Patrice circled the table to assist Woody.

  Victor smiled at his bevy of beauties. “Don’t be modest, ladies. I know great ideas need a spark to ignite them. Which one of you was the spark who envisioned the makeovers?”

  “I did!” echoed the three blondes in near perfect unison.

  Jackie stared at them aghast, her jaw falling with the speed of an excavator dropping its clam bucket.

  “All three of you came up with the idea?” asked Victor.

  They braved whiplash as they took sudden measure of each other. “We kinda … brainstormed,” cooed Bobbi. “Idn’t that right, girls?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dawna agreed. “When we were checkin’ out that cute little seaside town, that’s exactly what we were doin’. Brainstormin’ and shoppin’.”

  Oh, sure. Like they could multitask at such an advanced level.

  “And that’s when it happened,” declared Krystal. “Zzzzt! The three of us got zapped by the very same idea at the very same time. It was almost like … like a religious experience.”

  A pilgrimage to Lourdes was a religious experience. What the girls were peddling as gospel was an outright lie. I kicked Jackie under the table.

  “A printing error,” tsked Patrice as he hovered over Woody’s shoulder. “Not Poison Grille. Poisson Grille. Fish, not poison—a delicious pan-fried tilapia with reduced tomato and white wine sauce, presented on carrot mousseline and saffron rice.” He poised his pencil over his order pad. “Is that your selection, monsieur?”

  “Gimme a burger and fries, with extra ketchup. I’m a real ketch-up guy.”

  Virginia glared at him, her eyes narrowing to slivers. “Exactly where do you think you are? The food court at your local mall?” She motioned to Patrice. “Would you kindly explain the purity of French cuisine to Mr. Jolly?”

  “No burgers, monsieur. No fries. But we prepare seven mouthwatering flavors of tomato-based sauce to suit your individual taste.” He ranged a look around the table. “Other questions? Yes? No?”

  “I’ve got one.” Woody twisted his head around to look up at Patrice. “What kind of end-of-life planning have you done, son? What are you? Thirty-five? Forty? You know, it’s never too early to start making arrangements for that inevitable day when—”

  “I have a question.” Jackie leaned forward and braced her forearms on the table. Jaw hard and nostrils flared, she lasered a squinty look at the blondes. “Why am I remembering that the idea thingie happened a whole lot differently?”

  Krystal flashed a coy smile. “You must be misrememberin’, sugah.”

  “Am not.”

  “You have to be misrememberin’,” Bobbi agreed. She crushed the brim of her hat and cocked it at a perkier angle. “As I recollect, you weren’t even there.”

  “Was so!”

  Dawna gasped. “Are you tryin’ to take credit for our idea? Now that’s just plain disappointin’. Are y’all as disappointed in Jackie as I am, girls?”

  How did the saying go? If you can’t dispute the facts, attack the messenger?

  “Given that my own memory tends to be a bit faulty,” Victor blurted out, “I think you ladies are being much too harsh on Jackie. None of us remember events in exactly the same way.”

  “I’m remembering that no one has taken my drink order yet,” fussed Virginia.

  “Pardonne, madame!” Patrice hurried back to her side, leaving Woody to puzzle over the menu himself.

  “It doesn’t matter who thought of the idea,” conceded Victor. “Shall we call it a group effort? What interests me more are the results of the makeovers.” He graced Jackie with an avuncular smile. “Why don’t you tell me which products proved to be the most popular with your client.”

  “She didn’t have a client,” Krystal answered for her.

  Victor frowned. “And why was that?”

  “She was too busy taking pictures to bother,” Bobbi spoke up.

  Jackie let out an indignant breath. “That is so not true.”

  Victor calmed the waters with a palms-down gesture, a technique frequently employed by policemen when mediating domestic altercations, and travelers when expelling air from plastic zipper bags. His tone grew inquisitive. “So if you weren’t performing a makeover, what were you doing?”

  A whisper of uncertainty crept into Jackie’s voice. “Well … I was taking pictures, but—”

  “Told y’all,” mocked Bobbi.

  “I wasn’t taking them for myself. I was taking them for someone else. Another guest asked me to shoot some photos of her and her gentleman friend so she could post them in the Summer Getaway section of her Legion of Mary newsletter, so I was being a Good Samaritan.”

  Legion of Mary newsletter? Unh-oh. She was talking
about Nana and George. I hoped the photos hadn’t turned out too well because there was no way Nana would ever sneak pictures of George past the Legion’s editorial board. The newsletter only published “Catholic” content, and for eight decades now George had been a flaming Lutheran. It was too bad Lutherans and Catholics couldn’t find common ground that would allow them to celebrate their similarities rather than their differences, because other than the nagging issue of the Pope, I really wasn’t sure what separated the two. Well, other than five hundred years of bloody religious strife and dissention.

  “And furthermore,” Jackie ranted on, “if the three of you hadn’t hogged all the females in the host family, no one would have asked me to snap photos for a religious publication that’s read by no one other than a handful of saintly octogenarians with pre-dementia and degenerative eye disease!”

  Dawna’s lips twitched with amusement. “I hate to tell ya, darlin’, but whinin’ is really unbecomin’ to a lady. Idn’t that right, girls?”

  If this was the blondes’ idea of “singing Jackie’s praises” to Victor, Jackie might have to rethink the whole sister thing.

  Victor sighed. “Could we set the drama aside for the moment, ladies? I’ve come to a decision that I’d like to share with you.”

  The girls exchanged breathless looks with each other, but it was apparent from their expressions that they didn’t know if they were going to be on the receiving end of a compliment or a reprimand.

  “I’m very impressed with the initiative you showed today, no matter whose idea it was originally, so as a token of my appreciation, I’m going to add a small bonus to the perks we’ve already provided you. Shall we say, a cash award?”

  Virginia whipped her head around, her eyes skewering him. “Exactly what do you think you’re up to?”

  “I’m being spontaneous.”

  “No, what you’re being is ridiculous. The board hasn’t authorized you to hand out cash awards at your own whim.”

  “They don’t need to. I brought my checkbook.”

  “Excuse me?” An angry vein popped out on her forehead. “You’re making plans to write out checks to your prima donnas from our personal account?”